Shallow Graves by Kali Wallace Page A

question put a tight, cold knot in my stomach. I didn’t want to think about Mom and Dad and my sisters.
    â€œYes,” I said. I halfheartedly considered a new version of the patchwork girl: my sixth-grade locker neighbor Free Farmer had wannabe hippie parents, never mind that they had been born in the late seventies themselves, and she had rebelled by going full Goth as soon as she was old enough to pick out her own clothes. But that all felt like too much effort for the sake of a lie, so I only said, “It could have been worse. It could have been Zen or Soulfire or something. I can’t even imagine what kind of names they would have stuck on my siblings if I had any.”
    The woman laughed. “Hey, I’m not judging. You can call me Rain.”
    â€œGreat. Together we can be the weather report.”
    My leg didn’t ache quite as much anymore, so I stood up, paused to get my balance, and walked to the door.
    â€œIt’s locked,” Rain said. “And it’s—”
    I didn’t think it would be as simple as opening the door and walking out, but I wasn’t expecting what happened.
    I reached for the knob and there was a cool, solid pressure on my skin. Before I could react, the cold turned to heat, searing heat like putting my hand on an electric stove coil, and I was overcome with a dizziness so intense my vision darkened. I stumbled away from the door, gagging and gasping.
    â€œThat,” said Rain. “It’s locked. Just for us.”
    There was no burn on my hand, but I could still feel it.
    Rain leaned back on her elbows and watched me make my way around the room. The same thing happened when I tried to touch any of the walls and when I got too near the candles. I couldn’t even get close enough to pry around the plywood over the windows.
    When I gave up, Rain said, “They wouldn’t be very good at catching monsters if they didn’t know how to monster-proof a room.”
    Monsters . There it was. A word I had been deliberately not thinking for two weeks.
    â€œIt’s . . .” I didn’t want to say it out loud. “How?”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Magic. How else?”
    And there was the other one: magic.
    â€œLike in Harry Potter ?” I said stupidly.
    Rain laughed. “Yes, exactly like that. Gosh, if only we had our unicorn hair wands, we could get Professor McGonagall to help.”
    I tried to glare at her, but my heart wasn’t in it. “I’m kind of new at this. I don’t know how it works.”
    â€œSee the walls? That’s how it works.”
    I picked at the edge of a ruddy brown floorboard. I had no trouble touching the floor. “What is it?”
    â€œWell, it’s not paint, and it’s not ketchup.”
    I shuddered and wiped my hand on my dress. I didn’t want to believe her, but magical force fields made of blood weren’t much of a stretch after everything else that had happened.
    â€œBut who does this?” I asked. “How do they know how to do it? How does it even work?”
    â€œYou really are new at this, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes. Very.”
    â€œThat’s . . . kind of interesting, actually. Most of us are born into it.”
    â€œBorn into what ? What are you talking about?”
    â€œSit down,” Rain said. “You’re making me dizzy. Why don’t you start by telling me what you know, and I’ll tell you how you’ve got everything wrong.”
    I sat across from her and tried to find a position that didn’t make every part of my body ache. I barely knew where to begin. Since I had woken up—come back—I had been assuming I was the only one. I had tried to figure out what I was by looking on the internet, naturally, but the internet insisted giant four-foot-tall frogs stalked unwary travelersin the wilds of Ohio. I couldn’t believe any of it. Then there was Violet, telling me there were other things